


We Got Time

by RedStarFiction



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Bipolar Ian, Fluff, Love, M/M, Mickey and Ian meet in S4 timeline, Mild Angst, My first non-canon compliant Shameless Fic, Protective Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedStarFiction/pseuds/RedStarFiction
Summary: We Got Time.Happy Gift Exchange @godisthedice The prompt you sent was:   Sentinel AU - Sentinel!Ian and Guide!Mickey. Ian is a fragile Sentinel/prone to zoning out because of his bipolar. Any take on the AU you want other than that!Now I have to confess I have never heard of Sentinel before so I have had to embellish a little but this is what I came up with! In this AU, Sentinel/Guides are widely acknowledged as existing (think X-Men) but that doesn't mean everyone wants to be one.I never normally write outside of canon and certainly never anything that verges toward Sci-Fi so this has been a real learning curve for me and a huge amount of fun to try and write.





	We Got Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [godisthedice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/godisthedice/gifts).



Mickey has been going to Boys Town for a while. Four months to be exact. At first, he hung back and watched, glaring at anyone who approached him, no matter how hot they were or how drunk he was. After a couple of visits to the same place, a rough and ready bar called Pile Driver with none of the pretty, eclectic lighting and décor of the more popular places on the strip, Mickey decided to try his luck with a blonde, who looked like a redhead under the red bulbs lining the limited seating area.

The sex had been pretty good, not rough enough for Mickey’s liking and over too soon, but it had been a release of sorts and the guy had large hands and solid jaw and was tall as fuck. He had been nice enough and quiet enough that Mickey didn’t immediately get up and leave afterwards. They had a drink, chatted shit and then shook hands and disappeared into the night, going their separate ways without remorse. It had been easy and easy was exactly what Mickey wanted.

Being gay in Southside was not pleasant. Being gay in his father’s household was outright dangerous. It had taken Terry getting a six year stretch for some stupid shit that Mickey didn’t even know the details of, for him to consider seeking out what he wanted so badly.

After the first time Mickey found it easier and easier to get what he needed. He didn’t go off with someone every time he visited, he wasn’t fuckin’ desperate! But if he spotted someone who looked good and didn’t chat shit at him like he was some virginal twink in need of reassurance, then yeah, Mickey might go out back with them.

It’s kinda monotonous and maybe a little less than Mickey truly wants but it satisfies at least a part of whatever the fucked up thing it is inside him and so he keeps going back, wearing his few smart button downs in a random rotation in the hope that no one will notice he always wears the same things. He just about has money for beer, sure as shit doesn’t have money for clothes to impress fairies in dive bars.

On the night when everything changes and Mickey Milkovich’s world gets turned upside down, he is wearing his pale grey button down, the top few buttons undone allowing a glimpse of fitted black tank beneath. He’s wearing dark jeans as usual and steel toe-capped boots, old and frayed so that light sparks off the patches of exposed metal. It could be any of the countless nights he has been there.

He’s on his third beer, getting quietly buzzed and beginning to scan the crowd for potential when he feels it. A wave of confusion and fear, crashing over his mind and lapping at his temples incessantly. Mickey puts his beer down shakily and glances around the club. He can feel whoever it is growing weaker whilst their fear spikes, but he can’t see anyone who looks like they are in distress – every fucker in the club seems to be having a great fucking time so who the Hell …

The bright white lights from the DJ booth rake up the dancefloor, briefly illuminating the club and Mickey sees them – two men huddled close together, one leading the other toward the exit with a firm hand around his waist. The leader is older, his clothes and manner suggest wealth and there is a wedding band on his finger that catches the light treacherously. The other is young, possibly even younger than Mickey. He’s tall and wearing a thin tank top without a jacket despite it being the middle of winter. His eyes, ringed in dramatic black liner are closed, his mouth slack. Mickey huffs an impatient breath and shakes his head. Another tweeker just got off duty at another club most likely. There have been a few of them lately and if Mickey didn’t value his anonymity here so much, he would definitely be bringing some product to shift to these assholes.

The waves of sudden intense feeling from a random person are nothing new to Mickey, he’s had them for years and normally can ignore them, push them aside and move on with his day without a second thought. This time though, trying to ignore it is like trying to ignore a sharp stone in his shoe. He twists and shifts uncomfortably and shrugs at the fabric of his shirt, suddenly too tight across his shoulders. Whatever is going on, it’s not his business and it’s not going to get him laid, so as far as Mickey is concerned, it is not his problem. The feeling eases up slightly when the young man is out of sight and Mickey takes a shaky sip of his beer, sloshing some of it down his sleeve in the process.

“Shit!”

He bunches the cotton over his hand and rubs the damp fabric against his jeans irritably. A brunette on the dancefloor catches his eye and winks. Mickey gives him a small smirk in return and is about to saunter over when another wave of fear strikes him, it is like a firework, sharp and illuminating the darkness but fading quickly, and Mickey grabs his coat from the barstool and starts running towards the light trail before he can think about it.

The cold air hits him as he bursts out of the club, it burns his chest and stings his eyes and he skids on a patch of ice, arms flailing to keep his balance. He looks around frantically, the guy he is following is pushing out all kinds of garbled anguish and horrible as it is to be feeling it all crowding around in his own head, Mickey takes heart at its presence because it means that the kid is still there. He hasn’t lost him. Mickey walks as quickly as he dares, boots crunching the thin ice underfoot, shattering the surface of frozen puddles. He rounds the corner of the building, heading in the direction of the unofficial taxi pick-up point and sees them up ahead.

The old guy is propping the barely conscious guy up, one hand down the kids pants and running the other over his chest as he kisses and licks his face under a street lamp. In the brighter light Mickey can see just how young the redhead is. He makes a disgusted noise at the back of his throat and stomps toward them.

“Why don’t you molest someone your own age, you jerk!”

Mickey grunts, grabbing the older man roughly and dragging him away, slamming one fist into his gut.

“Ow! Fuck!”

The man twists in Mickey’s grip but can’t break loose and glares at him accusingly

“You’re an animal”

“I’m not the one groping and licking on underage boys, am I?”

Mickey quips back at him, his tone more frustrated than truly angry now that the danger of losing them has passed.

“We’re just having some fun …”

“Shut the fuck up! Now give the kid some money before he calls the cops on you.”

There is a stammer of apologies and a flurry of bank notes and then Mickey tires of it all and shoves the old perv backwards, booting him in the ass for good measure as he scurries away.

“And learn how to run like a dude!”

Mickey yells after him, flexing his fists and stooping to pick up the fallen money. He glances up to make sure the asshole who has just completely derailed his night hasn’t wandered off too far. The boy is slumped on his side in a snow bank, pale lips turning blue with cold.

“Jesus Christ.”

Mickey shakes his head and stuffs the cash in his pockets, abandoning the last couple of notes in his concern. He crouches beside him, shaking his arm far more gently than he usually would in such a situation.

“Hey. Hey! Fuck.”

Mickey runs a hand over his face. There is no way the guy is getting up on his own. Mickey looks around as if hoping some magic wheelbarrow might appear and when it doesn’t, he begins to gather the lanky limbs up from the snow. He grunts with the effort of lifting the unconscious body over his shoulder, one arm wrapped securely around the back of his thighs. The kid might be a skinny little shit but he’s solid and the weight of him is both inconvenient and comforting. Mickey is dimly aware that the redhead might piss on him or vomit down his back but he doesn’t worry about it too much.

Southside is not an impossibly long walk away but it’s enough that Mickey grits his teeth and scowls at the thought of navigating the icy patches of sidewalk and hefting them both all the way back to his house but fuck it, he can’t exactly just drop him back down in the snow for some grey-pubed shithead to take advantage of.

“You call for a yoo-ber?”

Mickey glances up in surprise at the driver of the vehicle but after a moments hesitation, nods affirmatively

“Yeah I called for a yoo-ber.”

He echoes, not realising the drivers accent has thrown the word off. What the Hell does Mickey know about cabs? In his world if you need a goddamn ride, you hitch one or steal one – you don’t download a fuckin’ app and pay strangers for shit you can do yourself.

He bundles the redhead into the back seat and clambers in after him, giving the driver his address and shrugging out of his coat. This is definitely one of the nicer cars Mickey has ever ridden in and in other circumstances he’d slip his hand down the seats to check for lost cash, smokes or credit cards – rich people are almost always careless with their stuff – but today he is focussed on the boy whose eyelids are starting to flutter.

Mickey clumsily throws his jacket over the long pale body and sits back in his seat, thinking what his next move should be. The house should be empty but if it’s not he’s just going to have to make something up, maybe he can say that the guy owes him money and Mickey is going to torture it out of him when he wakes up? It’s flimsy but Mickey can’t seem to think properly. The clarity that had come when his fuckin’ damsel in distress passed out is now waning as he wakes, and Mickey’s head is once again crowded with too much emotional static.

He’s heard of this sort of thing. Every now and then a couple of assholes make the news with it – a Sentinel and a Guide find each other in the big wide world and live happily ever after or some stupid shit like that and everyone goes nuts for it. Mickey had anxiously wondered on occasion if he might be a bit like those freaks but he trained himself to ignore the emotions. One thing that growing up with Terry had taught him was how to push your feelings way, way down inside and never let them slip out into view. Mickey is damned expert at that and it’s served him well but something about the redhead beside him … Mickey couldn’t ignore him and he’s fairly certain it wasn’t just because he is hot. He hadn’t even got a good look at him til they were already outside and sure, the flaming hair and strong, pale limbs are nice, his ass is pretty great, and Mickey may have wanted to trail his fingertips over those high cheekbones but it had been more than that … more forceful than lust. The urge to protect and …. Mickey shuts the word ‘Guide’ down in his head before he can even fully think it. Fuck that. It’s all bullshit anyway … probably.

The cab pulls in outside the Milkovich house and the driver shakes his head in confusion when Mickey tries to shove some crumpled dollar bills at him.

“It is charged to your card, Mr Green.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”

Mickey nods, as if this makes total sense to him and drags his semi-conscious companion out of the vehicle. Mickey chances setting him on his feet, and although he leans against Mickey’s shoulder heavily, the redhead manages to stand and the effort of doing so seems to wake him up a little.

“I’m Ian. We gonna have a good time?”

Mickey recognises the accent as Southside and smiles a little to himself without looking up at … Ian.

“Oh yeah, a real good time. Most likely listening to you puke up whatever cocktail of crappy knock off pills you ingested with that old creep at the club.”

“You’re pretty.”

Ian mumbles, trying to rest his cheek on Mickey’s head, causing the shorter man to jerk away and both of them to stumble, almost falling on the porch steps.

“Shut the fuck up, Firecrotch.”

Mickey’s tone is far softer than the words he speaks. He can feel exhaustion and uncertainty rolling off Ian in waves and the urge to smooth away his doubts is almost as strong as Mickey’s natural inclination to keep his distance.

“What’s your name?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey.”

Ian repeats softly and something about the way Ian says his name makes Mickey smile despite himself.

Making it through the front door is one thing, but navigating the cluttered living room to try and get to Mickey’s bedroom is something else entirely. Mickey irritably kicks bags of stuff aside as he tries to steer Ian through but inches from the bedroom door, Ian snags his foot on something and sprawls across the floor. Mickey grabs for him but a blinding stab of pain overtakes his movements and he staggers back against the wall, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead.

“Fuck!”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe through it, nostrils flaring. He has never really thought of himself as someone with a great deal of empathy. He tends to think of life as one big cluster fuck and if you fall down, you get fuckin’ trampled – end of story, bitch! But now something loosens within him and Mickey can feel the tight grip he keeps on himself slackening, letting empathy coil out from him and wrap gently around Ian, who is still on the floor, his fingers sticky with blood from a cut above his eyebrow.

“What are you …?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know just …”

Mickey keeps his eyes closed and reaches out with his mind. He has no idea what to do but something is telling him to take them both somewhere safe.

He pictures an empty building, beer cans line the ledges of broken windows, graffiti covers the walls, and it is cold as fuck. However it is also private and they can be alone here. Mickey knows this place well. He turns slightly and sees a large black box to his right, it looks heavy and when Mickey leans into it, the surface is almost uncomfortably hot. Mickey keeps his hands against it though and gradually begins to lean his weight into it, his nailbeds turning white with the force he is exerting. The box rasps against the chipped concrete floor and grudgingly begins to slide back.

In the living room, Ian is watching him with wide, disbelieving eyes as all his fear, even the muddled, muted fear that the drugs had created begins to disperse.

Ian knows what he is, he is a Sentinel and he has accepted that with a sort of reluctant pride. He’s never found cause to be ashamed, not about the shitty house he grew up in, not when he realised he was gay, not when he was diagnosed with bi-polar and not when he discovered his sentinel abilities. He is who he is and doesn’t need anyone to try and change him or save him.

Maybe that is why finding a Guide has been so hard. Many people have felt almost right but none of them have been the one. Even the ones who have accepted most of him, eventually Ian has always been able to feel them prodding tentatively at the edges of bipolar, trying to patch over it or wrap around it, refusing to accept that it is simply a part of who he is.

He feels Mickey approach that part of him, raw and confused and never fully at peace and tenses ready to do whatever it takes to stop it being interfered with, but Mickey simply observes it for a moment and then withdraws his attention.

Mickey pushes the box until something soft and pliant catches his eye. He steps around to look down at it and sees a substance like knotted cobwebs trailing after his progress. The individual strands are pale silver and shimmer in the weak light of the abandoned building. Mickey can tell they are fragile just from looking at them. Whatever the fuck they are, it ain’t his business. He’s here to move this weird box and although the stuff is snagged on it, he doesn’t think that he’s going to damage anything by carrying on. So that is what he does and little by little, the box edges toward one of the gaping holes where the windows used to be and finally, Mickey manages to tip it out, sending it tumbling into the nothingness below. Mickey steps back, panting, and takes a moment to catch his breath.

Ian’s mind clears and his breathing eases, completely in rhythm with Mickey’s own. He wishes Mickey would open his eyes, look at him properly but he takes the opportunity to look freely at his body, taking as much as he can in. Large feet in heavy boots and strong, stocky legs. His torso is broad and he’s clearly strong but maybe a little … soft? Ian wishes the light was better because he wants to see as much of his new friend as possible … maybe more than a friend should strictly want to see…Ian blinks and cocks his head to the side, squinting to read the words tattooed across Mickey’s fingers and he breaks into a wide smile when he finally pieces the letters together.

The shift in Ian’s mood breaks Mickey’s concentration and he opens his eyes, smiling softly in response to the ripple of happiness that has just washed over him. An electric blue gaze meets a gentle green one and it is almost too much.

Almost.

Love at first sight it a myth that Mickey Milkovich has long called bullshit on, but the swell of Ian’s emotion crashes over him like a summer storm, hot and fast, understanding and want crashing around him like thunder and the look in his eyes illuminating Mickey’s world like so many forks of lightening. He takes a shuddering breath and sees it mirrored on Ian’s lips. Mickey has no idea how he could stop it even if he wanted to and so he lets it flow over him and out of him, his cheeks growing hot with the unspoken admission.

Their breathing is completely in tandem, chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Mickey bites down on his lower lip until he tastes the metallic tang of blood. He can feel Ian, all of Ian. He can feel him as clearly as he can feel the throbbing of his bitten lip and he knows instinctively that Ian can feel him just as well. Hopes, fears, dreams. Their qualities and flaws all laid out in a dazzling array of complexities and acceptance blooms, clear and honest and vibrant in the small, cluttered room on a street in Chicago’s notorious South Side. A bond that will not be shaken.

*

“We gotta put something on that cut.”

His voice is strained even to his own ears and Ian doesn’t reply, merely rubs the back of his hand across the wound, dashing away the drying blood, wiping it off on his jeans before holding out his hand to Mickey.

If what the papers and news reports say is true, they may not have had a choice in the unexpected bond that had formed between them but as Mickey bent to touch his fingers to Ian’s palm, he knew that it was a conscious choice and one that he would probably make every day for the rest of his life.

“Are you my Guide, Mickey?”

Ian asks, almost shyly, squeezing Mickey’s fingers tightly as the words echoing between their newly linked perceptions. The question startles Mickey out of his own thoughts and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“How the fuck should I know?”

Mickey scowls, aware that this is not how Guides are supposed to speak to their Sentinels. They’re meant to be all calm and zen and shit. Ian doesn’t seem to mind though. Ian smiles again, a sweet, full-lipped smile that makes Mickey’s stomach flutter. If he was Ian’s Guide he should feel in complete control, he should be dominating the situation completely but that is not what is happening. Something is shifting between them, a swift change like sand dunes disturbed by a strong wind only to form a more beautiful pattern on the desert floor.

Ian pulls Mickey down to him and Mickey slides willingly onto the floor beside him, letting Ian’s large hands frame his face, cradling him and sending a constant stream of curious, hopeful contentment across the fragile air between them.

“Have you ever …?”

“No.”

Mickey shakes his head firmly and then hesitates, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“Wait, you talking about this gay shit or this weird new shit?”

Ian laughs and it is the best sound Mickey thinks he has ever heard. Not much can cajole Mickey out of a decent frown but that sound does.

“Weird new shit. You found me at Pile Driver so I figured … you know …”

Ian rubs his thumb lightly over Mickey’s cheek, playfully tugging his earlobe. Mickey looks away and bites his answering grin back, sucking in his cheeks and making a bored motion with his tongue.

Ian leans forward and their lips touch ever so briefly. It is the first time Mickey has ever been kissed and he pushes out a sense of exhilaration so strong it makes Ian laugh that rich, wonderful laugh again as they pull apart.

The connection between the two boys has been thrumming along gently, like soft background music in a restaurant, but now Mickey begins to weaken it, pulling away a little, wanting his space back. He might have just fallen in love with someone and that is shit that needs individual processing, not a group activity.

“Don’t …”

Ian’s brow creases and he grips the back of Mickey’s head tightly, fingers raking through the thick black hair.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, man. Wanna get out of your head before I fuck something up in there.”

“You won’t!”

Ian shakes his head and Mickey snorts, gently unfolding Ian’s fingers from his head and placing them away from him.

“You done this before?”

“No but … I’ve heard about it and I know a bit.”

“But you can’t do what I just did?”

“No …”

“And you don’t know how that bit works?”

“Not really …”

“Right. So learn a unique skill or shut the fuck up.”

Mickey smiles gently and disentangles himself from Ian, standing and offering him a hand up.

Ian presses his lips together and gives Mickey an exasperated look climbing to his feet unaided.

“Fuck you! You’re my Guide and you’re supposed to help me do … whatever shit I need to do.”

“I just fuckin’ did!”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, almost daring Ian to contradict him.

“Well maybe I need more help!”

“Jesus. You always this needy?”

“No. I usually just get what I want.”

Ian smirks and Mickey returns it ruefully.

“Yeah I bet you do, Firecrotch.”

“Ian.”

“Whatever. Bathrooms through there. Go sort that cut out.”

*

While Ian goes to the bathroom to clean up, Mickey gets a couple of cans of beer from the fridge, considers it, and then pours two glasses of orange juice instead. He doesn’t know how he managed to push the effect of the drugs away, but he is fairly certain that just because he somehow did, Ian still shouldn’t be drinking.

Ian looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and flinches. He looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes and pallid skin … fuck sake. He feels like he is at the tail end of a come down, it’s a soft landing thanks to Mickey, but his head still feels to heavy for his neck. Though perhaps it is just all that has happened. He had been about to go back to the apartment of some sleazy creep and get pawed over on an expensive couch whilst snorting, smoking and popping as many drugs as he could to try and quiet the sensations in his mind. Then, out of nowhere a beautiful, tough stranger shows up, rescues him, heals him, Guides him and, unless Ian is very much mistaken, they have fallen in love too. What the actual fuck?

He pinches himself sharply wondering if he is about to wake up and hears Mickey’s voice call out from the kitchen

“You okay?”

The connection. Mickey must have let himself back in a little bit just in case. Ian smiles at the thought of someone actually caring enough about him to want to do such a thing.

“Yeah, fine.”

Ian splashes a little water on his face and notices an open letter at his feet. It looks like a bill and it looks like someone has wiped their ass with it. The name at the top of the letter is ‘Mr I. Milkovich.’ - not Mickey then but perhaps a brother? Or maybe his father? Mickey certainly looks young enough to live with his parents still. Perhaps it is just a roommate? It is absolutely fucking weird to know so much about a person and not actually be sure of their last name. Ian grins to himself and adds it to the list of weird shit that just seems to happen to him.

Realising he is taking too long, Ian gently pats his face dry with the hem of his shirt as there are no towels in sight and unlocks the door, heading out to the living room and then following the smell of tobacco smoke though to one of the bedrooms. He finds Mickey sprawled on a rumpled bed, sipping a glass of orange juice. When he sees Ian he gives him a cocky grin and, unless Ian has imagined it, spreads his legs a little wider.

“Take a seat.”

Ian does so, sitting a little awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. The distance between them seems too far, a wide yawning chasm that neither is sure how to brace. Mickey clears his throat, places a hand almost protectively over his crotch, seemingly embarrassed about his presumption, and hands Ian his juice.

“Figured beer would be the last thing you need.”

“Yeah, probably right.”

Ian’s leg begins shaking up and down and he worries at a hangnail on his thumb.

“I don’t know how that shit happened earlier but I think I’m in love with you and you’re really fucking hot.”

He blurts suddenly and Mickey chokes on his drink, sending bright droplets across the room and dribbling the remainder down his chin.

“Damn! You just wanted to put that out there, huh?”

“Sorry.”

Ian ducks his head abashed as Mickey wipes his face on his sleeve, grinning.

“Nah, it’s cool. You look pretty good yourself, Freckles.”

“Yeah?”

Ian glances up, giving Mickey a one-sided smile, creating a dimple in his cheek that Mickey feels an almost overwhelming urge to kiss. He can feel the bond between them flexing as Ian’s happiness peaks again, a warm nudge against Mickey’s mind.

“Yeah.”

Mickey sits forward and lets his hand trail the length of Ian’s thigh, paying close attention the rhythm of Ian’s breathing and stopping his exploration when he hears it hitch.

“You OK?”

“Yeah … yeah just … relaxing.”

“Sure. Well go ahead and relax, Firecrotch. I got you.”

Mickey’s confidence is growing and he can feel Ian’s emotions stabilising as he touches him. Mickey has been told many times that he is a damn good lay, but no one has ever actually relaxed just from his touch before. It is a novel change from using his hands to do violence or tear off clothes before frantic coupling and he takes his time with Ian, gentling him as he travels his body.

“Is your last name Milkovich?”

“Mmhhmm.”

Mickey hums response as he scoots closer to Ian, ducking his head to place a kiss against his collar bone.

“Mine is ‘Gallagher’.”

“Good to meet you, Gallagher.”

Mickey carefully unbuttons Ian’s jeans and shoves his hands inside, grasping the hot, hard length of him tightly and running his thumb over the slit.

“I can’t wait to have you inside me, gonna ride that dick so fuckin’ good.”

Mickey licks his lip impatiently when Ian doesn’t immediately respond. He’s never fucked on a bed before and never done it with a guy this hot. He feels a little overwhelmed and so reverts to the sort of thing he normally says to speed things along and get him what he needs. Ian bucks his hips desperately but then grunts and stills Mickey’s hand with one of his own.

“What is it? You don’t wanna fuck me or something?”

Mickey’s voice is slightly strangled and his fingers twitch in Ian’s grasp making the younger man smile.

“I haven’t … I don’t … Can I at least touch you first?”

The question makes Mickey’s cock twitch in anticipation and he nods curtly.

“Course you can touch me! Knock yourself out, man.”

Ian’s hand hovers uncertainly for a split second and then plunges into Mickey’s hair, carding through it to cup the back of his head as he comes up to straddle Mickey’s thighs. The kiss Ian places on Mickey’s lips is fierce, all clashing teeth and thrusting tongues and Mickey can’t help the desires that he projects across to Ian, the urge to be treated roughly, the ache of wanting something hard and fast and furious, the desperation to be understood. It is the opposite of what a Guide should encourage his Sentinel towards and Mickey feels a twinge of guilt. Ian feels it too and pulls back to look down at Mickey.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Ain’t I supposed to do that shit for you?”

“Who gives a shit what we’re supposed to do?”

Ian smiles, kissing Mickey again and deftly opening the buttons on his shirt fastening first his lips and then his teeth around one dark nipple, a soft moan escaping as he feels the tiny bud of flesh harden and the sharp hiss of Mickey’s breath as Ian releases him.

Ian begins undressing Mickey, swift practical motions that calm Mickey’s skittering nerves. Once Ian has him down to his boxers, he glances uncertainly toward the door. Ian follows his gaze and immediately stands, crosses the room and closes it, flipping the flimsy lock Mickey has attached to it into place. He understands, maybe not everything but enough to know that Mickey clearly values his privacy.

“Just you and me.”

He smirks, tugging his tank off, and turning in a slow circle, arms held slightly away from his body.

“This okay for you?”

Mickey nods, not trusting his voice. His eyes are wide and staring and he isn’t entirely sure that he is awake but if this is a dream, it is quickly becoming the best dream he has ever had and he is in no hurry for it to end.

“You a military man?”

Mickey nods to the tattoo on Ian’s side and Ian grins almost bashfully

“It’s a long story but kind of … yeah. Army.”

Ian cocks his head to the side, watching him keenly and Mickey feels a surge of confidence pulse out from the redhead into the room. He nods again and it is all the permission Ian needs.

He pulls Mickey to his feet, steadying him with firm hands on his shoulders and looks down at him intently

“You gonna kiss me or just fuckin’…”

Ian shuts him up with a kiss and they smile into each others mouths, hands trailing each others bodies. Ian moves ones hand and pinches Mickey’s nipple, softly and then harder, pulling the shorter man up onto his toes, a flush of pleasure creeping over his cheeks as Ian twists him lightly, just enough to see the pulse in Mickey’s neck jump. His other hand tightens on the firm shoulder in his grip, pressing his thumb hard into the collarbone, his fingers leaving bright white outlines on the already pale skin.

Mickey shivers, the room is cold and his skin is too sensitive, he shifts on the balls of his feet, not sue whether Ian means to let him rest back onto his heels or not.

“Get into bed.”

Mickey snorts, he barely knows Gallagher but the guy says it as if they’ve been sharing Mickey’s bed for years, as if he belongs there, as if he is as much a part of the room as the cracked ceiling and patchy carpet.

He has no idea how Ian manages to burn even in the cold of the room but as Mickey scooches over in the narrow bed and Ian folds around him, the heat from Ian’s body makes him curl involuntarily into him, pressing his forehead against the toned muscle of Ian’s chest.

He feels fingers trail down his back, the tips blunt and strong as they curl around Mickey’s ass, kneading one of his cheeks lightly, then squeezing more firmly.

“You have a really great ass.”

Mickey allows his own hand to travel down to grope the round swell of Ian’s behind and he grins.

“You too, Army.”

“You like nicknames, huh?”

Ian begins kissing down Mickey’s temple, his jaw, his neck. He shuffles down the bed, not worrying about the sudden chill as his legs left the shelter of the quilt.

“Got a problem with that?”

Mickey peers down the length of the bed, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Would it matter if I did?”

“Not really.”

“Well then quit fucking staring at me and spread ‘em.”

Ian bites Mickey’s calf firmly and Mickey tips his head back, grinning up at the ceiling, his eyes closed. He didn’t think a bed could make much difference, and by anyones standards his bed is uncomfortable. He usually sleeps on top of the quilt, wrapped in a hoody or his coat rather than try and sleep with springs poking him in the back but even with his shitty mattress, being in bed with Ian is so fucking liberating he almost wants to laugh with the joy of it.

He thinks of his father, what Terry would say if he knew. It is a recurring thought that comes to Mickey at some point during every encounter he has ever had with another man. Usually Mickey grits his teeth, closes his eyes and, if things are far enough along, thrusts himself back until pain and pleasure finally mingle and he cums over his clenched fist, already tugging his pants up with his free hand.

However with Ian between his legs, kissing the inside of his thigh and gripping his hips tightly, Mickey can barely see Terry’’s face. It is blurred and faint, like he is viewing it through smeared glass and the shame he feels is muted too.

Ian’s tongue slips between his cheeks and Mickey wraps his hand in Ian’s hair with a sharp curse.

“Jesus, Gallagher!”

Mickey’s dick is so swollen he is worried he is about to cum all over himself but Ian seems to know his body as well as he knows everything else and he shimmies back up the bed, looking at Mickey as if he is the best thing he has ever seen.

“Got lube?”

Mickey nods and leans over the edge of the bed, rooting through the junk under his bed until he comes up with a small bottle, the label scratched off just in case.

“Here I … Ian?”

Ian’s face is stony, his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder as he kneels rigidly on the bed.

“Ian?”

Mickey drops the lube on the mattress between them and gently grips the back of Ian’s head.

“Hey. Hey it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Someone’s been stabbed.”

“It’s Southside, man. Of course someone’s been stabbed.”

“I don’t … I can’t see them…”

Mickey bites back a curse and looks around for his boxers which are no where to be seen. Mickey bites his lip, squares his shoulders and kneels up in front of Ian, shifting his grip in the red hair to a more certain one and locking eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about this right now. Let it go, man.”

Mickey can feel the instant Ian’s sight starts to come back under his control.

“That’s it, you got it”

He coaxes, as Ian draws toward Mickey’s touch, the anxious fear within him easing as he melts forward, sinking his face to Mickey’s shoulder and breathing in the scent of him.

“I got you.”

Mickey strokes Ian’s hair and kisses his temple as light tremors flash through the younger man’s body. There is a sudden rush of thinking awareness in the bond between them, Ian’s emotions spike, twist, flutter and then … there is stillness.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian murmurs, swallowing heavily.

“Don’t worry about it, man.”

Mickey shrugs and continues smoothing Ian’s hair, his free hand tugging the quilt up around their shoulders, shrouding them from the outside world.

“You think I’m crazy? A Sentinel too fucked up to know where to look.”

“Nah. You’re … well you’re whatever the fuck you are, same as anyone else.”

“You are definitely my Guide.”

Ian smiles and nods to himself, the question is gone and certainty sits proudly in it’s place.

“You think?”

Mickey rubs a finger under his nose and Ian nods firmly

“Yeah. It’s … I can’t explain it but everything about you, even the way you smell… you’re the one.”

Ian closes his eyes so he doesn’t see the hope and the shock that flit across Mickey’s face.

“Lay down, Gallagher. You look beat.”

Ian frowns and cups a hand around Mickey’s balls

“But don’t you want …?”

Mickey kisses him by way of answer and then pulls back, gently patting Ian’s face and easing them both down onto the bed,

“You gonna run out on me in the morning?”

“No!”

“Then we got all the time in the world.”

Their limbs entwine and Ian speads the blanket over them, tucking it securely around Mickey’s broad back, another first for the brunette.

“I haven’t even said thank you. For rescuing me.”

Ian blinks bleerily and the flush of warmth that spreads through Mickey’s chest feels strange and a little uncomfortable but not unpleasant.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.”

“You say that a lot.”

“You talk a lot.”

Mickey sees Ian’s eyes crinkle at the edges as his lips soften and curve into a small smile that is entirely fore Mickey.

“Better get used to it, Mick.”

As Mickey shuts off the lamp, there is not a word from either of their lips but they both drift into an easier sleep than either has had in a long time and it truly is the start of something beautiful.


End file.
